


monday, you can fall apart, tuesday, Wednesday, break my heart

by hoye



Series: and i don't wanna be lonely (so show me the way home) [1]
Category: Addams Family - All Media Types, The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 05:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20809202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoye/pseuds/hoye
Summary: Five Hargreeves is never recruited by the Handler and never works for the Commission. He's been trying to leave the Apocalypse on his own for the last 42 years and he's finally managed to do it!It's just that he doesn't end up at the Umbrella Academy or in the right time.What's more immediately concerning is that this creepy, kooky, mysterious and spooky, all together ooky family won't leave him be.(But maybe that won't be a problem).





	monday, you can fall apart, tuesday, Wednesday, break my heart

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from "Friday, I'm in Love" by The Cure.
> 
> * * * * *
> 
> I am a little all over the place with my Umbrella Academy and Addams family knowledge so please forgive me if things are not perfectly accurate. I just wanted to write a fun little fic without getting too bogged down in research. I will say that I've never read the comics for UA and that a lot of my information on the Addams family is blended between the original comics, TV show and movie depictions, so it's really just a bunch of stuff I picked out from the versions I liked best.
> 
> I also didn't tag this as underage because even though Five is physically young and Wednesday is actually young, I didn't write anything explicit and just wanted it to be cute and sweet and wasn't sure if it was necessary to do so (this is only the second thing I've ever written...)
> 
> (also I know it's a bizarre pairing lol).
> 
> I might end up reading through and changing things in a week or so, this was really spontaneously written, which is why some parts move so quickly lol
> 
> With that said, I hope you enjoy it! :-)

Five Hargreeves groans. He shifts different body parts and ensures nothing’s broken, all while keeping his eyes screwed firmly shut.

“Please be the Umbrella Academy, please be the Umbrella Academy,” he murmurs, fingers crossed in an immature but strangely reassuring gesture as he slowly, finally, opens his eyes.

“Fuck.”

This had been Five’s only successful attempt at jumping through time since he had first attempted such a feat 42 years before and ended up stuck in the aftermath of the apocalypse.

That first time had taken quite the toll on his then thirteen-year-old self and he found he was initially unable to do more than leap spatially a few meters or so. The first two years in the apocalypse were spent not only trying to survive but desperately (and futilely) attempting to travel through time again. His attempts dwindled over the years, a certain acceptance (although not agreement) with the situation led instead to Five expending more energy on living, rather than just existing. He found Delores (and being in the peak of puberty and in perpetual isolation, was free to spend a lot of unmentionable, intimate time with her) and discovered a copy of Vanya’s book, which he read obsessively at least once a week (he had no other way to remember <strike>his family</strike> the Umbrella Academy).

He would never mention it, but he had sobbed when he had discovered the bodies of <strike>his family</strike> the Umbrella Academy amongst the rubble and fire, gasping as the smoke and ash that polluted the air burned his throat, and had fully realized he was stuck with no foreseeable escape. He then had no choice but to spend over four decades in the desolate wasteland that was the future with no company aside from a book and a mannequin. When he closes his eyes, he can still picture the destruction and vast nothingness perfectly, no matter how much he grits his teeth and pushes the haunting image to the back of his mind.

He had been 55 years old when he finally bothered to make another attempt at jumping, the first attempt in twenty years, but also the first attempt to be backed by calculations he had scribbled on anything he could find (usually crumbling walls, old newspapers that miraculously hadn’t burned, and once, when he was desperate, on a few of the chapters in Vanya’s book – specifically the ones about Luther, who he considered family but rarely liked). And now, here he was, _not_ at the Umbrella Academy.

He must have messed up the calculations more than he had realized, because he’s standing on an unfamiliar street where each cookie-cutter house sits behind a white-picket fence, like something out of the 50’s. There are a few people out and about, some kids racing down the street on bicycles and screaming and what looks like a few stay-at-home moms dressed in outfits reminiscent of Mom’s, calling out to the kids to be careful. A couple of the kids wave to him as they careen past him and he half-heartedly waves back (the first actual people he had encountered in 42 years, so he wasn’t about to be a total ass) before jerking back as he lays eyes on his hand.

His small hand, free of calluses, with smooth and soft skin he hasn’t known in years. Five seeks out a reflective surface, rushing to the side of an old-fashioned automobile parked on the street.

Thirteen-year-old Five blinks back at him. He realizes now that he no longer has his greying beard or unruly long hair, that his skin is no longer rough and tanned and cracked like old leather. He’s lost his (slight) beer belly too. He’s the Five that left the Academy, but his eyes are the same ones that had seen the apocalypse and lived through it. They’re as green as ever, but tired, a touch sad even, out of place on his thirteen-year-old face.

“Oh, hell no, I don’t have time for this,” Five snaps, yanking out Vanya’s book from his tattered rucksack. He flips to some of the pages in Luther’s chapter where he scribbled the most essential equations and results. Finding the one he was looking for, he mumbles some modifications to himself as he places the book back in his bag and preparing to make another jump. He closes his eyes and clenches his teeth and curls his hands into fists, all the while desperately hoping. Feeling the familiar pull of one of his portals forming, Five leaps into the welcoming blue-tinged abyss.

And promptly finds himself deposited on the other side of the street, where he had just been standing.

“What the fuck,” he says, not having the mental capacity to deal with the despair and frustration crawling up his throat and the exhaustion settling into his bones. He shoves aside any urge to freak out and simply groans at his new predicament. Would he be stuck here for another 42 years before he had enough energy to attempt another jump?

Rubbing his eyes, he thinks about the car he’d been using as a mirror. It looks new, shiny and well cared for, but the model is old to him, something he’d never encountered in his original timeline. He’s not sure when or where he is and begins frowning to himself, eyes sweeping down the street and stopping, dumbfounded, as he takes in the house on top of the hill.

It’s not actually a house, but a decrepit mansion that stands out amongst the other little homes on this street in all the wrong ways, protected behind a run-down yet intimidating metal gate and accompanying fence that stands like jagged teeth all along the border of the property. Speaking of, the property is noticeably browning, with all sorts of dead plants suffocating not only the fence, but also the mansion itself. Just behind the building, Five makes out the hundreds of tombstones that litter and mar the extensive grounds without a pattern, not unlike acne on a teenager’s face.

He eyes it warily; he’s had enough of mansions growing up under Reginald Hargreeves’ “loving” care. This one doesn’t even have the decency to be imperious and refined in all aspects as mansions normally would – in fact, it seems that the only thing this building has in common with his childhood “home” is that it paints a daunting picture in the middle of an otherwise plain and friendly-looking neighborhood. For example, the mansion that had housed the Umbrella Academy had been daunting because it looked down upon anyone who gazed at it, much like the residents themselves had done (cough – Reginald and Luther – cough); if that mansion had had a nose, it would have always been sniffing in disgust as it stared down upon whoever approached it. The mansion that Five could currently see was daunting because it looked rickety and abandoned and the weather right above the property was gloomy and wet while the rest of the street was brightly lit by the sun’s persistent rays. It looked like it had been cut out of a ghost story and crudely adhered to the rest of the neighborhood – a child’s attempt at scrapbooking.

Five sucks in a breath, grumbling like the old man he is (internally) as he decides to head towards the mansion, despite every telltale sign that he should avoid it. If anything weird was going on, it was surely happening there and Five was never one to run from danger – he was one to run towards it.

He didn’t run this time though, instead approaching the mansion at a leisurely stroll, observing the mundane houses with their cozy but boring atmosphere.

Five reaches the gates of the mansion and shivers slightly, feeling as if something cold and viscous was trickling down his spine.

“Get a grip,” he growls to himself. He’s about to bypass the gate altogether, but it abruptly swings open, as if anticipating his arrival. Five levels a glare at the gate for its uncanny timing, but ultimately shrugs, having seen weirder crap in his life, and strides towards the front doors of the mansion.

* * * * * 

He had debated simply entering without any notice, as he assumed the inside of the mansion was probably as devoid of life as the outside, but eventually rapped the brass knockers against the door.

Five waits impatiently, giving whoever (if anyone) lives inside all of two minutes to answer the door before he breaks in. He’s seven seconds away from doing so when the door is yanked back and an inhumanely tall figure peers out.

The figure steps out from behind the door and Five can’t help but think the man must have seen some rough days (and that was coming from _him,_ who had lived in an actual apocalypse). He’s wearing a very nice suit though, a stark contrast to his physical appearance. His skin is greying and he has some rather unattractive scars from what appears to be surgery, but Five isn’t sure. He’s definitely not about to ask though.

“Hello,” he says instead, doing his best to approximate what he thinks could pass as a friendly smile (it doesn’t; his people skills are rusty). “I happened to be new in the neighborhood and couldn’t help but notice your rather _eccentric_ house. I was hoping to speak to the owner – would that be you by chance?”

The man towering over Five stares at him vacantly for what seems like an eternity before he lets out a low grumble.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” Five replies, ever so slightly off-kilter at the strange man’s even stranger response.

To which the man begins to groan, no words involved. Five is trying to decide if he should just take the man down, when a voice calls from behind the door.

“Who is it, Lurch?”

It’s a woman’s voice, Five notices, and it sounds dainty? That wasn’t quite the right word. The voice sounds soft and delicate like a flower, but there’s something about it that makes Five think more of thorns than roses.

The man at the door, Lurch, jerks back, pulling it wide open so that Five can sneak a glance at the interior of the mansion as well as the woman who had spoken.

He’s not too surprised to see the inside isn’t much cozier than the outside. He can only make out what must be the foyer, because it’s dark inside, dimly lit by dull yellow light bulbs and a few candles here and there. The floor is covered in a plush Persian carpet and the walls are covered with elaborately patterned wallpaper that peels slightly at the edges. Standing at the base of a winding staircase is a woman wearing a tight black dress that reaches the floor, with long, billowing sleeves and a plunging neckline.

She’s stunning, her hair black and long and loosely framing her face, her lips painted a deep red and her eyes framed by dark lashes that contrast her pale skin.

She tilts her head as she regards Five’s appearance. He’s wearing his clothes from before the jump and they hardly fit him now. He can only imagine what she must be thinking before she smiles coyly and begins talking again.

“It looks like we have a guest, Lurch. Please show him to the sitting room and I’ll go make us some tea.”

With that, she swept away down the hall, no questions asked. Five doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know if he should actual enter now that he’s been invited in, because what kind of psycho lets in a random kid with ill-fitting clothes?

He thinks he’s perfectly capable of leaving the mansion if anything too weird happens (as nothing has ever prevented him from teleporting; Reginald had ensured that) and steps inside. Lurch groans again and slowly lifts an arm to gesture towards a door just inside the foyer.

“Thanks,” Five responds and walks towards the indicated room. He can finally appreciate the décor, although he doesn’t know exactly what to think of it. Everything he can see indicates that the woman and whoever else might live here must be well-off, because there are some historical artifacts and expensive-looking knick-knacks on display. And that’s just the foyer.

Inside the sitting room, Five takes a seat on a plump sofa, also dark-colored, and eyes the oddities cluttered against the walls. Many of them appeared to be from different countries and there were too many taxidermy animals to count. Five avoided looking at their unseeing eyes, completely unnerved by the way they stared. He did notice the suit of armor and the many, many weapons that graced the walls, but they seemed like decoration more than anything.

Overall, it looked like the mansion was not as derelict as it had appeared, although Five didn’t necessarily think the interior wasn’t shabby either (the wallpaper was peeling and there were spiders everywhere). It was just weird; the house is clearly lived in and well-furnished and decorated, but everything is dark and dismal and walks the line between haunted and cursed.

He doesn’t have time to think more about it because the woman returns, a tray in her hands. She sets it down on the coffee table and busies herself with preparing the delicately painted tea set for her guest.

“I hope you don’t mind Early Grey,” she says, pouring the tea into cups.

“Not at all,” Five answers, although he does think a little wistfully of black coffee (which he drank extensively during the apocalypse whenever he could find any).

“Do you take any milk? Sugar? Cyanide?”

He genuinely laughs a little at her dark joke and shakes his head. “No thank you.”

“Suit yourself, dear,” she says, before uncapping a little glass bottle with skull and crossbones on it. She hums a little as she stirs it into her own tea and also adds a little milk as an afterthought. “Makes it taste a bit like almond milk,” she says when she notices him staring. She smiles again, knowing and sharp. Five gulps.

“So,” she begins, nonchalantly sipping her tea that may or may not actually be poisoned, “What’s your name?”

“It’s Five. Five Hargreeves.” He doesn’t lie, can’t bring himself to for some reason when he looks into her eyes. He brings the tea to his mouth, questioning if he should actually drink it. She doesn’t react to his last name, however, and he’s not sure what to make of that. Perhaps wherever and whenever he is, the Umbrella Academy hadn’t become a reality yet.

“A lovely name,” the woman says instead, nodding slightly. “Five is, after all, the number of points in a pentagram.”

He feels confused, had been waiting for the inevitable “what kind of name is that?” that was warranted from his response. Moreover, what a completely unreasonable explanation for how “Five” is a “lovely name”.

“Thank…you?” His voice inflects upwards at the end, making it sound like a question, which he hates. “Can I ask your name?”

The woman hasn’t stopped smiling. “Of course. My name is Morticia. Morticia Addams.”

Like out of a movie, thunder crackles after she says her name and lightning flashes.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Addams.”

“It’s Mrs. And likewise.”

“Where’s Mr. Addams?”

“Gomez is in his study with Fester, his brother. I believe they’re planning the Halloween family get-together.”

“Oh? May I ask who else lives here?”

“Fester lives with us, as well as Gomez and my children – Wednesday and Pugsley, as well as Grandmama, Lurch – our butler, Thing, and occasionally Cousin Itt will come to visit.”

Five’s brow furrows. “Who’s Thing?”

A hand suddenly clamps down on his shoulder and Five whirls around, ready to fight whoever had snuck up on him.

There’s no one there. But the hand is still on his shoulder. He finds himself face to face with a disembodied hand, the fingers acting like bizarre little legs for this…this Thing that is tapping his shoulder and looks like a fleshy spider. He’s only not freaked out, because he does technically have experience with the abnormal. He did grow up in the Umbrella Academy, surrounded by the impossible every day.

“I’m guessing this is Thing?” Five asks, to which Morticia smiles just a little bit wider – she still manages to look absolutely graceful.

“So, Five, please do tell me how you came to our home.” Morticia returns to sipping her tea, Thing leaping off Five’s shoulder and crawling onto hers instead.

“How do you mean?”

“It’s simply rare Gate lets anyone in anymore. You must be quite compatible to be welcomed into the grounds at all.”

Nothing she says makes any kind of sense to Five, who is feeling more and more out of his depth, despite having been raised as a child superhero by a billionaire, an ape, and a robot. He had thought he would never encounter something that baffled him, yet here he was.

“I’m not sure what you mean. Could you explain?”

“You passed through Gate to get in here, correct? Gate is in charge of letting people in, and he rarely lets anyone in these days, not even the man who delivers the post.”

Right. The freaky timing with the gate when he had walked up earlier. So, the Gate was sentient, apparently. And had let him into the house.

“Are you telling me that the Gate chose to let me in?”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

“But why?” he blurted out, feeling uneasier as the conversation continued. He understood the woman’s easy acceptance of his arrival, if what she said about the Gate was actually true.

“I was hoping you would be able to answer that,” Morticia responds lightly, finishing the last of her tea.

Before he can even think of an answer, two kids, around his perceived age, wander in.

“Wednesday, Pugsley. Come say hello to our guest. This is Five.” Morticia beckons her kids to come closer.

They’re dressed in dark-colored clothing as well, which Five is beginning to accept as a norm for the members of the Addams family, and they look like they’ve been plucked out of a black-and-white horror film.

The girl, he’s not even sure if she’s Wednesday or Pugsley because the names were so odd, is wearing a black dress with a white collar and has her black hair plaited on either side of face, which is completely expressionless. She’s pretty though, in a ghost-like way, pale as if she might disappear altogether, but with big, dark eyes fringed with soft-looking lashes. Her nails are (obviously) painted black.

The boy is wearing a black-and-white striped shirt, paired with some black shorts. He’s a bit pudgy and he grins widely, unlike his sister. The freckles dusting his cheeks make him seem like a cute little kid (even though Five himself looked like a cute little kid right now too).

The girl peers into his eyes, no discernable expression on her face, and Five is a little creeped out by how soulless she seems; it’s as if she was apathy embodied.

“Hi, I’m Pugsley!” The boy waves and continues to grin. He seems out of place, only in that his demeanor is not quite as mysterious or haunting as the other people Five has met so far.

“I’m Wednesday,” the girl says. Her voice is soft, yet firm, leaving no room for doubt – it’s somehow both monotonous and heavy with the weight of something Five doesn’t trust himself to name.

“I’m Five,” Five says, feeling obligated to introduce himself. He gets up from his place on the couch and extends a hand. Both children ignore it.

“That’s a good name. There are five points in a pentagram,” the girl responds as her mother nods approvingly. Who the heck were these weirdos?

“How’d you get in, Five?” Pugsley asks, a look of confusion crinkling his brow.

“The Gate opened so I just walked in,” Five admitted, to which the other children exchanged glances. Pugsley now looked completely awestruck, mouth gaping a bit and eyes wide open. Wednesday is a bit subtler with her expressions (and with everything else it would seem), but her eyes are a fraction wider than they were before and when she turns to look at Five, there’s a hint of curiosity that shifts her previously blank features.

“Gate let you in?” she asks, still observing him like a scientist discovering a new species.

“Er…yeah.” He cringes as he hears himself falter for the first time since arriving to this unknown time and place – he’s too old to be intimidated by little kids!

She turns to Morticia. “I’ll prepare the guest room with Pugsley.” Wednesday places a hand on her brother’s shoulder and together, the pair exit the sitting room without another word to Five.

“What did she mean by guest room?” Five inquires, feeling more and more unsettled with each new encounter within the mansion.

“Oh, you’ll be staying with us, won’t you? It’s terribly uncommon for us to have guests and Gate must have taken quite a liking to you.”

Should he stay? These people were strange in a way unfamiliar to him and he found himself off-balance in every interaction he had with them. However, he wasn’t exactly in a position to be turning down accommodation – he didn’t know how long he would have to wait before his next successful jump and he didn’t have anything to his name other than the worn-down clothes and rucksack he’d come with. They also didn’t seem quite _dangerous_ in the ways that the people Five used to fight were; there wasn’t any bloodlust in their eyes or a crazed way in which they held themselves. In fact, the members of the Addams family that he had met thus far were almost regal in the way they carried themselves and spoke to him (not counting Lurch, who hadn’t spoken at all).

_What’s the worst that could happen at this point,_ Five says to himself, slightly defeated.

“If you would be willing to have me, I will gladly accept your invitation.”

Morticia smiles again and manages to not look friendly at all. She does seem happy with Five’s acceptance, though, and that’s good enough for him.

“Let me show you to the guest room.”

* * * * *

The guest room is faintly lit by a dusty chandelier and features an impressive four-poster bed draped with surprisingly clean sheets. There are actual tapestries hanging on the wall, depicting people hunting mythical creatures and one shows a particularly gruesome and realistic witch-burning that makes Five wonder, not for the first time, what century the Addams are actually living in. A large wardrobe is also pushed against the wall and the curtains hanging over the windows are pulled shut, despite it being the middle of the day.

The taxidermied head of a lion hangs above the bed and Five does his best not to grimace at it.

Morticia gestures to a door with a perfectly manicured hand. “That is your bathroom. Please do make yourself at home. I believe Wednesday and Pugsley are willing to give you a tour of the house and later, you will be able to meet the whole family at dinner.”

“Sounds great,” Five lies. She raises an eyebrow and he smiles, although it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Then I shall leave you to it.”

Once Morticia has left the room, Five collapses on the bed and covers his eyes with his hands as he tries to organize his thoughts.

_Right. So this mansion belongs to the Addams family and they’re a bit…different. They’ve offered me free lodging and food because their god-damn Gate opened for me. They think my name is “nice” because of pentagrams. Their taste in décor is extravagant but also kind of horrific? What do you think, Delores?_

He frowns when her name is innocently tacked on to the end of his question.

Five had preemptively mourned the loss of his sole companion before trying to travel through time again. He had explained to Delores that she was impractical to take with him, too bulky (“I didn’t say fat!”) to tag along. Plus, he could just find her once he was in the appropriate time again. The entire week before he planned to jump, he had spent every waking moment with her, hoping to leave her with good memories so that he could ease his own conscience about abandoning her.

Now that he was unable to move on from this unknown time and place, Delores would have to wait for him a while longer – he hopes she understands.

The door to the guest bedroom creaks open and Five is jolted from his rumination about the Addams family and Delores. Standing there is Wednesday, silently watching him with the same curious eyes as before.

“Can I help you?” he asks warily. Wednesday walks into the room and takes a seat on the armchair facing the bed.

“Not unless you know how to fix the electric chair. Something is off with the wiring and I was hoping to have Pugsley test it out for me today."

_I don't think she's kidding_, he thinks as he remembers the casual manner in which Morticia had offered him cyanide earlier.

"Where are you from?” Her voice is still soft, but not quite as flat as it had been before. There is also still a thrum of _something_ in everything she says and he finally thinks he has the word for it at the tip of his tongue, but it escapes him at the last moment.

“I’m from New York. The city, not the state.” A pause. “This might be strange, but where exactly are we? I hitchhiked here and didn't catch the name of the town.”

There’s the slight quirk of an eyebrow, but Wednesday doesn’t give any other indication that his question is out of the ordinary.

“This is Cemetery Ridge, Pennsylvania.”

Alright, so not terribly far from New York City, but the more important question would be “when are we?”. Before Five can figure out a nonchalant way of bringing up the date, Wednesday continues, “Today is the first of October, 1974.” She gives him a knowing look as he stares at her.

“Why’d you mention the year?” Five’s skin crawls – it’s as if she read his mind, but that’d be impossible, wouldn’t it?

“Because you didn’t know it.”

His throat constricts and his eyes flicker from her face to the door and back.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he manages a strained chuckle, but the sound grates his own ears.

Wednesday shrugs, the most human gesture she's made since he first laid eyes on her. "You look lost. And I haven't met a wayward soul yet. I've tried summoning a few but that never yielded any results. I think Mother also noticed."

He doesn't know what to say or what he should address first, if he should address anything she's said at all - he settles for questioning her logic about "wayward souls".

"What makes you think I am one?"

"Your eyes," she says promptly, decidedly. "They're not from this time. This place either, but that much was obvious." She cocks her head to the side. "How did you get here, spirit?"

"Don't call me that. My name is Five." He wouldn't normally care what a random little girl wanted to call him, because he has more important things on his mind. But the way Wednesday says "spirit" in her voice, soft but sure and _meaningful_, he feels like she knows too much about him without knowing anything at all. It unnerves him.

"Five then. How did you get here? And why here? Was it my summoning?"

It's 1974, meaning the 43 spontaneous births resulting in the seven members (he included Vanya, even if Reginald wouldn't) of the Umbrella Academy had not yet occurred. That also meant there weren't exactly (as far as Five knew) people going around with superpowers. So how is he to explain he is a teleporting, time-traveling 55-year-old man who has found himself returned to his 13-year-old body after living through the end of the world for 42 years? The answer is plain for any smart person (and Five isn't just smart, he's a genius) to see: he can't - there is no person on Earth in this year (precisely for the next 15 years) who would believe him. He'd be committed and he has no interest in sitting around, chatting to therapists about his repressed trauma and hardships.

He's still thinking about life in a psych ward when Wednesday interrupts his thoughts. 

"When are you from?"

It couldn't hurt to answer _that_, right? She did seem to have some faith in his displacement in time, which means it's very likely that she'll accept the truth.

He's still hesitant when he shares any revealing information about himself. "I was born on October 1, 1989."

"So you are from the year 2000, I'm guessing."

He bristles at that, straightening to his full height atop the bed. "Did you just assume I'm _eleven_?" 

She smirks at his indignant reaction (her face lit up with emotion that Five would never have imagined she could feel and would have shown more reaction to if she had not just riled him up), not mentioning how his voice cracks on the last word. "I apologize. How old are you actually?"

"I'm thirteen," he bites out, barely able to handle his irritation at the sight of her clearly unapologetic face. The scowl on his face actually makes Wednesday look a little cheerful.

"Physically maybe. How old would you say your soul is, Five?"

"I'm done answering questions, Wednesday." 

She's getting too curious, prying a bit too much for Five's liking. He's already decided he won't tell her about his abilities or how old he actually is or why he's here in 1974, instead of in 2002 like his body should be (he's fine with not being back in the ruins he called home as a 55-year-old).

He slides off the bed and walks towards the open door. Wednesday is already standing, but doesn't move to follow him at all.

"Aren't you supposed to show me around the house or something? That's what your mom said." He knows he's deflecting, changing the subject so that he doesn't have to deal with this crap right now, but the exhaustion and annoyance he feels must show on his face, because Wednesday doesn't press further. She just nods, expression again cool and detached, no hint of the prior interest in sight.

She's in front of him, leading him down the hallway, when she turns her head over her shoulder and says, "I'm twelve, by the way. Since you didn't ask."

And without waiting for a response, she heads up another flight of stairs, leaving Five to decide if he's going to follow her or not.

* * * * *

He hadn't had any other clothes to change into, so Wednesday had taken him to the fourth floor where she wandered into Pugsley's room ("Where's your brother?", "I buried him outside. I think he'll be back in the next hour or so.") and ransacked his wardrobe, which spilled open as striped t-shirts and black shorts flooded out. She held a shirt up against Five's shoulders, but it would have been an extra wide crop top on him, so he politely refused it.

"We could check the attic or you could borrow something of mine," Wednesday murmurs, putting the t-shirt back into the catastrophe that is Pugsley's wardrobe. She doesn't ask Five for his opinion though, instead opting to walk out of the room and up another flight of stairs, never hesitating to see if he's actually trailing behind her or not. (He's tempted to stop following her out of spite, but worries about getting lost in some medieval torture room, which he's now quite certain the Addams have – at some point, he’s going to have to figure out if the dark humor is just that, humor).

She brings him to a dusty attic and he’s pretty sure he sees at least four bats sleeping under the rafters. The attic is a mass of relics and outdated technology and cobwebs. There’s broken furniture pushed against the walls and some incredibly disturbing portraits scattered about.

“That’s Great-Aunt Calypso and Great-Great-Grandfather Addams,” she supplies when she notices he’s abruptly stopped to stare. Her words don’t make the horrific paintings any less horrific.

Wednesday opens and closes three musty wardrobes huddled in the corner before she finds what she’s looking for.

“Take your pick.” She gestures toward the open doors, spiders and a few centipedes fleeing from their suddenly disturbed hiding places.

The wardrobe is filled with what could only be Halloween costumes, extravagant and outlandish in color and material. Five scowls as he gingerly leafs through the clothing, until he finally finds a plain but handsome black suit that’s hidden between a clown costume and a ballgown.

“Interesting choice,” Wednesday says while eyeing his selection. “That was Father’s suit. He wore it to Grandfather Addams’ funeral.”

If Five hadn’t just spent the last 42 years scavenging everything he could find from the dead, he would be hesitant to wear the suit. But now? He ducks behind a rusted metal mannequin and several moth-eaten sheets, undresses, and slips into the funeral suit. It fits like a glove.

Wednesday nods slightly as she takes in Five’s appearance.

“Come. I think I hear Pugsley.”

* * * * *

Pugsley (covered from head to toe in black mud) and Wednesday take Five on a tour of the mansion, just as Morticia said they would.

They point out many of the fossils and knick-knacks and other random things decorating the building and describe where they came from and which member of the Addams family had obtained it and when. Five tries not to bat an eye when he spots the electric chair Wednesday had offhandedly mentioned earlier and ignores the guillotine set up in one of the rooms on the third floor.

“We’re a big family,” Pugsley explains after mentioning their four-times-removed cousin who had gifted them with the skull of what must have once belonged to a dinosaur. “And we’re spread out a lot.”

“Are all of you psychopaths,” Five mutters under his breath.

“Not all of us. I do think some of our cousins are homicidal maniacs, but we don’t get to see them too often, so I haven’t gotten around to asking. Uncle Fester might be the only psychopath who lives here.” Wednesday answers his rhetorical question matter-of-factly and Five snorts.

“Ha, ha, very funny.”

Both Pugsley and Wednesday stop and turn to look at him blankly.

“What’s funny?” Pugsley asks.

“I can see where you get your sense of humor from. Your mom offered me ‘cyanide’ with my tea earlier.”

“What sense of humor? Mother loves cyanide with her tea.”

“I think my tolerance is getting better too, but Wednesday’s is much better than mine already.”

Now all three of them are looking at one another with confusion. The Addams children are confused because they literally haven’t been making jokes or poking fun the entire time they’ve met Five; they’re quite serious children (and precocious to boot). Five is confused because it’s starting to dawn on him that the Addams haven’t been making morbid jokes, they’re just morbid people. Well, maybe not _morbid_, but they seem to have a shared fascination for the macabre. Actually, do they have any superpowers? There’s no way they’d have lived this long, what with the poison and being buried alive and attempted electric chair.

Five rubs his temples. “God, I can’t handle this right now.”

“Handle it later then, Five. It’s dinner time!” Pugsley announces, grabbing the other boy’s hand and dragging him back downstairs. The youngest Addams is not particularly concerned about Five’s inner turmoil; if anything, he’s all but forgotten it already. Wednesday, on the other hand, takes her time to consider Five’s reaction carefully as she makes her way to the dining room – she has more questions for him later.

* * * * *

Gomez Addams is a striking man with a thin moustache and an infectious smile. He’s wearing a fitted (black) pinstripe suit and holding a glass of wine (which Five would honestly kill for at this moment).

Fester Addams, on the other hand, lacks the charisma of his younger brother and he holds himself as if constantly nervous. He laughs awkwardly and hunches his shoulders up to his ears and looks so stiff that Five feels uncomfortable just looking at him. His eyes are ringed with dark circles that make his ghostly-white face seem sunken; taken together with his bald head, Five is given the impression that Fester could be related to Nosferatu.

Grandmama Addams looks like a proper witch. She has unruly grey hair and wild-looking eyes to match. She’s wearing what must have once been a burlap sack and has a tatty (black) shawl thrown over the entire ensemble. She grins at Five and he counts three missing teeth.

Five is seated at one head of a long table with Gomez sitting opposite him. Morticia, Grandmama, and Wednesday sit to Gomez’ left while Fester, Lurch, and Pugsley sit to his right (this way, Five was seated right next to the Addams children). Thing is tapping their fingers impatiently against the table next to Gomez’s cutlery. Gomez stands, lifting the hand holding the wine glass in the semblance of a toast towards Five.

“To our guest,” he announces, proudly, beaming. “We are honored by your presence, Five Hargreeves, and we welcome you warmly to our home.”

“Thank you,” Five replies politely, a nod of his head towards Gomez as his eyes sweep across the faces seated at the table. He leans over and picks up his own wine glass, which is empty, more for the gesture than anything.

“Oh, how rude of me. Five, would you care for some wine?” Gomez says, his eyes brightening with a flash of mania.

“That’d be lovely. Thank you.”

As weird as it is that they had no qualms about giving alcohol to a “kid” his age, Five isn’t about to speak up and miss an opportunity to have a drink – god knows, he needed it right now. He is still reeling from the realization that the Addams family aren’t making morbid jokes, they just _are_ morbid. Which means that they’re not quite normal as a family either. He hasn’t seen any explicit superpowers, but what kind of average human can build up a tolerance to _cyanide_?

_Still, they’re not quite like the Umbrella Academy_, Five muses to himself. He’s watching the dinner unfold (and he was originally a bit skeptical about eating anything offered to him, but he’s found that despite how disturbing the names of some dishes are, they are quite tasty once you get over it) and watching the Addams family interact, he recognizes the beginnings of envy start to take root in his gut.

Because they’re a _family_. Not just in name (or in shared trauma as with the Umbrella Academy), but in the way they laugh together (or smile mysteriously to indicate some sort of good mood without explicitly showing it in some people’s cases…) and the animated way in which they talk to one another about their day or the exciting new torture technique they read about in a book. Wednesday chats in her solemn, serious way about how she’s getting better at beheading with Grandmama Addams, while Pugsley shouts to Fester about how he’s old enough to start smoking cigarettes. Morticia looks over her family fondly while she holds hands with Gomez, who looks love-struck as he alternates between eating, kissing her hand and arm, and murmuring in her ear. Lurch and Thing aren’t speaking (Five isn’t actually sure they can speak at all), but they seem a part of the family dinner all the same.

“So, Five,” Gomez says suddenly, pulling him away from his observations and into a conversation. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from New York City.” He can feel Wednesday’s eyes on him and barely manages to stop himself from scowling at her.

“I heard you were allowed in by Gate,” he presses on, grinning. “Do you think you might be part of the family?”

Five smiles weakly. “I doubt it. My family has been called Hargreeves for generations.” It’s a lie, but he can’t exactly reveal the nature of his birth that guarantees he is not an Addams.

His denial doesn’t deter Gomez’s grin from growing wider.

“Ah, but if you didn’t belong here, old man, I dare say Gate would have eaten you when you came close.”

Five tries to ignore the bizarre logic underlying the family’s acceptance of his presence that has persistently come up all day and zeroes in on the endearment Gomez has tossed into the comment.

“I’m not exactly the old man here,” he retorts, his manners failing him in a moment of confusion and exhaustion. He freezes, mentally slapping himself as the sarcastic retort slips out before he can stop himself.

The entire Addams clan is staring at him and he’s getting ready to jump off the property when they burst out into laughter and good-natured smiles. Even Wednesday smirks.

“Knew you had it in you, old man,” Gomez shouts over the subsiding laughter.

“You can relax, you know,” Pugsley remarks, noticing Five’s tense shoulders. “You’ve looked on edge all day and you’re our guest!”

“We won’t kill you,” Wednesday deadpans.

Morticia simply raises an elegant eyebrow at him. Grandmama Addams is still cackling in the background and Fester’s nervous laugh joins hers.

“I’m not used to being welcomed so readily,” Five admits, wincing at how pathetic his reasoning was, but not knowing what else to say at this point. He’s already slipped up enough that they all noticed how oddly he was behaving.

“We assure you, Five, we’re very happy to have you here.” Everyone sitting around the table nods, including Thing who manages to convey the same sentiment without a head.

He’s taken aback and it’s completely visible on his face.

He’s being eagerly received by a family of strangers when he could never get more than a glimmer of approval from his own “father”. His siblings were better, but even amongst the kids, there hadn’t been more than a fair-weathered camaraderie built upon shared circumstances; they were siblings and Five would absolutely kill for them regardless of the petty family drama and childish behavior, but there was a lot left to be desired in the family dynamics among the members of the Umbrella Academy (especially if Vanya’s book was anything to go by).

“What if it turns out I’m not a good person? I could be a serial killer.”

“Are you? We couldn’t be more thrilled if you were,” Morticia says.

His eyebrows shoot up. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“We’re happy to have you here, exactly as you are,” Gomez says this time, paired with an enthusiastic nod.

“You’re welcome to stay, as long as you’d like.”

There’s an unfamiliar burning sensation behind his eyes and he swallows thickly as he attempts to hold back his tears. The unconditional acceptance is too much for him, something that he never imagined he’d have in his lifetime.

“Thanks,” he says, “it means a lot.”

And with that, the dinner returns to the chatter from before and Five is left to his own thoughts.

* * * * *

Five Hargreeves has been unofficially adopted by the Addams family for six months now and all things considered, it’s been a rather nice time.

On the first day he had shown up on their doorstep, he learned they were out of the ordinary and he couldn’t stop himself from being suspicious and wary of their every move, but a week passed, and then a month, and soon he found himself warming up to them, like a feral cat being enticed indoors with the prospect of a warm bed and decent food.

They never acknowledged the macabre way in which they lived life or the morbid way they laughed in the face of danger and death (and Five never asked them to explain it either). And while admittedly it had taken some time to adjust to, Five actually began to appreciate the carefree manner in which the Addams family conducted themselves. He had always taken himself seriously because of the environment in which he was raised, and because of the absolute devastation that was the apocalypse, but he discovered that his sarcastic remarks and (quite real) threats of bodily harm were readily and happily accepted by the family. His skill with guns and knives, as well as his extensive knowledge of how to best break a person (physically and emotionally) earns him awe-struck looks from Pugsley and proud looks from the adults, which strokes his ego (even though he’s mentally also an adult).

So now, six months later, Pugsley looks to Five as an older brother, constantly badgering him for more information and stories about fighting and killing, which Five can’t help but give in to with a wry chuckle. Every few days he has a sword fight with Gomez in his office and they end each spar with scotch and conversation about literature. Occasionally he helps Grandmama Addams follow questionable recipes for dinner and once in a while he and Fester bond over (the making of or discussion of, depending on the week) explosions. He takes tea in the afternoons with Morticia and they chat amicably about poisons and the plants in Morticia’s garden (mostly poisonous, some carnivorous). He’s comfortable around Lurch, which is probably the most that can come out of interacting with the wordless butler and Thing tells him jokes through Morse code.

And most surprisingly, he finds himself <strike>liking</strike> tolerating Wednesday’s presence in his life. He spends enough time with her that he can read the minute differences in her facial expressions and likes seeing the slight twitch of the left corner of her mouth when she’s amused and the downright murderous glare she sends him when he pokes fun of her. They have pretty intense debates about ghosts (which Five only believes in because of Klaus and Wednesday believes in because she just does) and history (mostly about wars and revolutions – the bloody stuff) and weapons (Wednesday favors the crossbow, while Five is less picky and more well-rounded, or so he claims). She is also the only one who knows about his abilities.

Five and Wednesday became friends one month into his stay in Cemetery Ridge. For that first month, Wednesday only ever bothered him when she tried to ask invasive questions with her haunted stare, which only served to irritate Five and make him snappish. So, she began leaving him alone and Five became a little less prickly (not that the Addams’s had minded).

And then he had had a nightmare, the first nightmare since he had arrived from the future. It was a blend of the worst parts of living past the apocalypse that he normally refused to dwell on: the dead bodies of his siblings amongst the ruins of a destroyed mansion, the silence that came with being the last sentient being alive, and the overwhelming sense of grief and defeat that had persisted for decades. He had bolted awake, sweating, his jaw aching from the way it had been clenched shut, unwilling to cry out even when he wasn’t conscious.

Instead of the complete darkness of the guest bedroom that he had become familiar with, there was the faint glow of a candlestick by the door. Wednesday stood there, wearing a Victorian-inspired nightgown, and maybe it was the way the candle was flickering, but her expression was soft, concerned. (He could almost go so far as to say it had been gentle.)

“What do you want,” he snarled, hating that she had seen him in a vulnerable moment.

She didn’t say anything, just walked towards him with the same expression on her face, and Five jerked away from her when she extended a hand.

But she didn’t touch him. In her hand was a mug of hot chocolate and he looked at it confused.

“Drink it, fool.”

He followed her command, sipping the drink held in shaking hands, and she settled on the edge of his bed as he did. She didn’t ask or mention his nightmare, just told him some childhood stories and a few fairy tales (grim ones) that Morticia had read to her when she was a little(r) girl. Even though she was acting softer than she’d ever done before, he appreciated that there was never any pity in her voice and that she didn’t look at him when he felt like he was coming apart. She had talked to him until a hint of sunlight slipped through one of the cracks in the window, which was when she had taken the mug from him and bid him a good morning before slipping out.

From then on, Five stopped being unapproachable and cold to Wednesday, and that in turn led to their occasionally spending time together, which became spending most of their time together. Eventually, Five went from detesting her presence and nosy questions to looking forward to hearing her opinion. He slowly opened up to her, which included some information about his messed-up family, as well as a relatively comprehensive overview of his personal timeline and abilities. She had taken all the information in stride and although he had immensely regretted telling so much to her, he was relieved to find out she didn’t say a word to the rest of the Addams’s – it made him think he made the right choice to trust her.

Trust. It was something he didn’t think he’d be capable of, seeing as his most trusted companion for most of his life had been Delores, who couldn’t _technically_ betray him. The day he confirmed that Wednesday made no move to expose him to the rest of her family was the day he drunk himself into a stupor, because he finally could name how he felt about the girl – he liked her.

He hates himself for liking her, because even though he’s physically thirteen, he still considers himself to be fifty-five years old, and he can’t help but think his totally-not-serious affection for her is gross, because she’s _twelve._ Thinking about his feelings normally makes him feel sick and annoyed, but thinking about his feelings for Wednesday makes him feel like he deserves to die a slow and painful death. He really doesn’t know how to deal with these particular feelings, age aside, because it’s not like he has a lot of experience with _liking_ people (Delores didn’t count, even though he did love her).

It’s the only thing that makes him eager to leave (aside from, you know, the general desire to avert the apocalypse). He’s still been testing his limits, seeing where his reserves were at with careful observations of how much further he could jump each passing day. He does it secretly, but from the look Wednesday sometimes gives him when she thinks he can’t see her, he’s guessing she knows he’s going to leave as soon as possible.

No matter how much he likes being a part of the Addams family.

* * * * *

“I’m probably going to leave within a month or so,” Five announces at dinner one night, almost one year since his arrival, putting a stop to everyone’s conversation.

“So soon?” Morticia asks. “We rather thought you were a handsome addition to the family.”

“I’ve thoroughly enjoyed being here. Honestly. But I have to get back to my family eventually and I’ve already stayed here longer than I was intending,” he confesses.

“We’re sorry to see you go,” Gomez says now, but he smiles widely and familiarly. “But you’ll always have a place here. You’ll always be an Addams.”

Five smiles genuinely at that, especially as Pugsley whines that he’s leaving too soon and Thing taps out that they’d be pouting if they had a mouth.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you know before I leave, so I can-,” he hesitates, “-can say goodbye.”

The dinner is a bit gloomy moving forward and not in the way the Addams’s like. But Five tries to get things back to their usual levels of excitement and they pick up on his efforts and begin chiming in. Before they even know it, everything is back to normal, at least on the outside.

Only Wednesday acts out of the ordinary, playing with her food and not contributing at all during the rest of the meal. Five quirks an eyebrow at her when she looks his way, but she ignores him, which hasn’t happened before.

It’s not until later that night he finds out why she’s acting so sullenly.

She comes into his room (as he’s come to think of it) and stands in the doorway, as she’s often done over the past year.

“Can I help you,” Five says sarcastically, but good-naturedly.

“Who’s going to tell me about the details of the French Revolution.”

“What?”

“Who else will try to contact the otherworldly with me?”

“Is this about what I said at dinner?”

She doesn’t say anything this time. She often doesn’t say things, but she always seems to know when to talk and when to be silent when in conversation with Five.

“Wednesday, I’ve got to go home sometime. I can’t stay here forever.”

“…can’t you?”

“I don’t think that’d be a great idea.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t know everything, Wednesday. I still have _some_ secrets.” He thinks about the oncoming apocalypse and his conflicting feelings about a certain day of the week.

“Then tell me. Tell me why you’ve got to go.”

“It’s complicated. I want to tell you, I really do, but it’s going to mess things up more than it already has.”

She’s walked over so that she’s standing right next to the desk where he’d been scribbling a few more equations in preparation for his return. She eyes some of his formulas and he looks at her, already feeling a bit lonely. He’s still sitting in front of the desk, pen in hand, just to her left.

And suddenly, she leans over and brushes her lips to his cheek in an innocent kiss.

Five’s openly gaping at her. His hand reaches up and touches his own face, unsure if he what had just happened, had _actually_ happened.

“I’d miss you.”

“You, you, you don’t know me, Wednesday. I’m essentially, I’m, I’m a fucking stranger!” He’s upset and he hates that he looks the way he does, because he still feels like a fifty-five (almost fifty-six) year old. He feels like he’s tricked her, deceived her in some way.

“I know you, Five Hargreeves. Even if you didn’t tell me, I think I’d always know you.”

He laughs hollowly. “You know I’m not thirteen, right? My body’s thirteen, my consciousness is fifty-five. I’ve already told you this.”

She shrugs. “It’s like you’re a spirit. I said that to you your first day here, do you recall? And spirits are often ancient, but that doesn’t change their physical age.”

Wednesday doesn’t care for his mental age, because even if Five has hang-ups about how old he should be, she likes that his time in the future had imparted him with knowledge and opinions that never bored her. She isn’t one to care about looks, but she likes the way she wants to smile when she sees Five’s smirk or hears his laugh. She hasn’t ever liked anyone before, but she knew that she liked him nonetheless. There was no one else she’d want to give her immortal soul to: it had to be Five.

She doesn’t say any of that to him, she doesn’t have to; what she’s already said conveys the message she wants to send and that’s enough. She’s trying to gauge his reaction, because she’s revealed herself to him in a way she hasn’t ever done before and though she won’t show it, she’s intimidated. Scared, that this boy who jumped into her life a year ago, the only boy she’s ever thought didn’t deserve to die, might reject her offered heart.

Five doesn’t know what to do. He’s known for ages now that the Addams family has eccentric logic and hearing Wednesday’s explanation of their age difference unsettles him. Because it makes sense to him too. And that means there isn’t really anything holding him back from admitting to his feelings.

But he has to leave. He is going to leave, whether he says anything or not, so should he really say anything? He would be abandoning her, like Delores, but it’s absolutely worse, because he could reunite with Delores again and everything would be as it was before, but unless he tries to come back, there’s no guarantee he’d ever see Wednesday again.

“I have to go home, Wednesday. No matter what.” It’s not a rejection, it’s avoidance and she knows it.

“Yes or no, Five.” There hadn’t been a question said aloud, but they both know what she’s referring to.

Five groans and rubs his hand against his face as he leans over on the desk. Every rational part of him is telling him that under no circumstance should he answer that question. (But his heart is beating in earnest; _yes, yes, yes_.)

It’s quiet and the silence is comfortable, even though the question is lingering over both of them. Wednesday doesn’t push him, doesn’t wheedle an answer out of him or ask for affirmation. She’s just there and in the minutes that follow, Five is overwhelmed with how much he appreciates her companionship. She’s been there for the nightmares and the bursts of rage that he hadn’t been able to control and she’s never judged him or pitied him or thought he was less for any of it. He liked that he didn’t always need to tell her something for her to understand, sometimes a raised eyebrow or an upturned corner of the mouth said everything. She does know him and maybe she’d always be the one to know him.

“Yes,” he says suddenly, quietly. He knows they’ll part; like intersecting lines, their unfortunately brief intersection of time would inevitably move on and the distance between them would grow wider. But in this moment, thinking about all the ways in which Wednesday is irreplaceable to him, he wants to acknowledge this brief but fortunate happenstance, he wants to give it the worth it’s due.

Wednesday holds out her hand, only the pinky extended, and Five, uncertain but accepting, mirrors the action. They link pinkies, as if little children on the schoolyard.

“It’s a promise,” she says.

* * * * *

“Wednesday, do you think that maybe someday you might regret picking someone like me?”

“No.”

“But what if I turn out to be a complete madman who has a dark past and even more secrets. What if I’m actually a fifty-five-year-old man who has seen a future where no one survives and is haunted by the reality of it every day of his god-damn life and is willing to kill to achieve what he must, even if that means killing you. What would you say about a man like that, a man willing to murder you?”

“I’d marry him.”

* * * * *

Five and Wednesday are sitting on a bench in the middle of the graveyard and it must be the witching hour, or at the very least, two in the mo(u)rning. There’s a distance the size of two preteen-sized hands between them, but neither of them address it.

He told her he’d tell her his secrets, ever since that night they had made the pinky-promise. That was over two weeks ago, and now, he’s leaving in nine days, so she prompted him to get on with it and uphold his word.

He starts talking about Klaus first, since they _are_ in a cemetery and he can’t help but think this is the most appropriate place to remember the Séance, even if the Séance would hate it here. He starts off describing Klaus’ eccentric style even when they wore uniforms, about his zany smile and lined eyes and wise cracks that got him into endless amounts of trouble with Reginald, and how he never even tried to stop Four’s drug abuse, just assumed that Four was fulfilling his role as the disappointment Five and everyone else already thought he was – no one considered what it was like to be Four, to constantly have ghosts begging and screaming and grabbing and hurting you. There’s an immeasurable amount of remorse in the way Five describes Klaus, even though Wednesday knows some of this information must be coming secondhand from that book Five had told her about some time ago.

And after talking about Four, he segues into talking about Six, about Ben, who was always close to Klaus, with his shy way of speaking when they were growing up, the way he hated the horrors that stirred inside of him and how he hated that he was named after them. The Horror never wanted to fight, was peaceful despite the anger and bloodlust that crawled eagerly out of his belly, and that was ultimately what got him in the end. Five muses sardonically whether Klaus ever got to meet Ben, even when the rest of them could not.

Wednesday doesn’t interrupt him or look at him while he’s talking. They’re both facing forward, observing the waxing moon and the dead trees and the silent graves as Five shares more of himself than he’d even given Delores.

He’s talking about Vanya now and he smiles a little, although it seems bittersweet. Vanya, who was only given a number because Reginald couldn’t be bothered to give her a real name even when he refused to acknowledge her as a part of the Umbrella Academy. Vanya, who played the violin so passionately and made him sickeningly-sweet sandwiches just the way he liked them when he was actually thirteen. Vanya, who was excluded from everything. The way he smiles is not bittersweet anymore, just bitter as he recounts the ways in which the other numbers, including him, left Vanya out and how she had shrunk over the years and became quieter, _less_ somehow. He trails off at that, silent for the first time since he started talking, before adding, “She was, _is_, a good kid.”

Of course, he mentions Allison, and he can’t do that without touching on Luther, but he doesn’t really go into the details about Three and One, especially not One. “We weren’t that close,” he shrugs, kicking some gravel. “But the Rumor apparently moved on to bigger and better things like everyone thought she might, and Spaceboy never stopped taking orders from that bastard.”

He leaves it at that and moves on to mentioning Diego’s interesting ability to hold his breath indefinitely, but that really paled to how the Kraken’s aim with a knife was even better than Wednesday’s with a crossbow, and she smiles when he says it. Two always seemed a bit indignant that he hadn’t been Number One, but Five hopes that he was able to move past that and see Reginald for who he really was in the end.

Recalling Two leads to thoughts about Mom and her humming as she cooked and baked in their kitchen, the tone-deaf way in which she always smiled at the members of the Umbrella Academy, whether they were laughing around the table in the basement or bleeding out on the infirmary table. That also leads to mentioning offhandedly that he was raised by not only a robot, but also an ape and how could he forget about Pogo, with his polite turn of phrase and intelligent, neat outfits. Both Grace and Pogo had been the primary caretakers of the emotional well-being of the seven children, but even then, they could only do so much to counteract all of Reginald’s horrific “parenting”.

And of course, last and most definitely least, there was the Monocle, Sir Reginald Hargreeves, the motherfucker himself. Five describes the way in which his eyes never warmed with emotion and that he didn’t have a single laugh line to speak of, despite the number of wrinkles that lined his face. Reginald lacked everything that a parent should have – kindness, empathy, patience, etc., etc. – and lacked even more that a human being should have – namely, a heart. Five is gritting his teeth at this point and his hands are clenched on the bench on either side of his legs, white-knuckled (the two preteen-sized-hand distance halves).

Now he’s letting things slip without even meaning to. The rebellion against Reginald and his constricting rules and training regimes that resulted in his first forays into time-travelling, the forty-two years spent in the hellish landscape that the earth had become, the day he met Delores. Reading Vanya’s book and crying when he learned she waited for years, leaving the lights on and placing yet another sugar-filled sandwich out for him. Wondering if he’d die alone, without even Klaus to see him again. Thinking there’d come a day when he’d never see Ben again, even if he made it back. Remembering the time he stayed up with Allison to talk about a novel they both really liked or that time he had offered to be the target for Diego’s practice, laughing as the boy turned red with anger as Five kept teleporting away before the knives could reach him. And that one rare moment he hadn’t wanted to punch Luther’s teeth in, when Luther had seemed unsure but spoke out anyway against Reginald’s unwarranted criticisms of their very first mission.

The words had been spilling out, almost as if he couldn’t help himself. He almost chokes with how much he wants to say, his tongue tripping in its rush to get everything out.

But he falls silent. There’s more to say, there’s always more to say when it comes to his childhood trauma, to his family, but he can’t bring himself to say it anymore, because he’s already said so much. Five feels like he’s just split himself open for Wednesday to see and he imagines her brushing her fingers against his heart and bringing the red digits to her mouth to taste his blood. It’s a gruesome thought, but in this moment, in the pale light afforded by the moon, sitting amongst the dead, it’s an accurate one.

Suddenly, the one preteen-sized-hand distance on the bench is gone and Wednesday’s hand is on top of his, freezing cold like he imagines the corpses around them are, but comforting all the same and it’s all the acceptance he needs.

They sit like that for a while, Five flipping his hand over so that their fingers are intertwined, but neither of them move otherwise.

Eventually, he says, “Wednesday, what do you think of me?”

She doesn’t respond right away, and even when she does, she doesn’t look at him.

“Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc – we gladly feast on those who would subdue us.” A careful pause. “I can see it in you – in all of you. I think you belong here. You’ve always belonged here.”

He smirks, casting her a sidelong glance.

“Are you asking me to stay?” He tries to sound smug, but his voices wavers with trepidation.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” she quips, which he knows is the most of an answer he will get. She squeezes his hand slightly and they let the witching hour draw to an end in the stillness of the graveyard. It’s only once the beginning streaks of sunlight begins peeking over the horizon that they let their fingers untangle and stroll back to the mansion.

* * * * *

The day he plans to leave, he tells the family about his departure at breakfast.

“Tonight,” he says and they seem rather sad about it, even Gomez, who’s usually a bit manic.

“We’ll have to have a farewell dinner,” Morticia says. “We’ll make your favorites.”

Five gives her a real smile. “I’d like that.”

He can’t bring himself to look at Wednesday, who he can feel looking at him. It’s not like she didn’t know this was coming, but he’d rather not think about saying goodbye. To her or to the rest of the family.

Once breakfast ends, he allots enough time to do something with each member of the family before dinner. He wants to have a good memory of each person (and Thing) before he has to leave them behind (literally). So, he sword fights with Gomez and drinks tea with Morticia and cooks with Grandmama Addams. Then there’s lunch and afterwards he blows up a few headstones with Fester and tells Pugsley a few impossible stories about children superheroes. Lurch pats him on the head and Five doesn’t kill him, and Thing tells him jokes for over an hour. Wednesday’s nowhere to be found, but he kind of anticipated that, so he lets it go. He’s certain she’ll be the last one he sees.

It’s already dinner and the dining room has been spontaneously decorated, with the chandelier fully lit and a few Halloween streamers hanging on the walls. Five sits at his regular seat at one head of the table and Gomez stands to make a final toast.

“To Five,” he says proudly, his chest puffed up as he smiles warmly at him, “An Addams through and through.”

“To Five,” the other members of the family chorus and he’s vaguely reminded of that first dinner, when he had thought them strange and eldritch, but felt accepted all the same. And now, with only a few hours left to spare, his heart felt warm yet heavy as he took in the sight of the Addams family.

Of _his_ family – he had a family in the Umbrella Academy, but that didn’t mean the Addams’s weren’t family too.

* * * * *

The dinner had been full of laughter and anecdotes from the past year. The food was delicious and the wine was even better, but the company was unrivaled and Five took a mental picture of everyone as he liked them best: happy.

Once everyone had eaten their fill, they cleared the table and Five went upstairs to pack his things. The family was meeting him in the foyer in an hour to say their farewells and it would also be the first time all day that he’ll manage to talk to Wednesday.

It doesn’t take very long for him to get all of his things in order, seeing as he’s taking his old rucksack from the apocalypse, with a few of the clothes he’d been wearing for the last year (including Gomez’s funeral suit, which he is currently wearing) and Vanya’s book. There are some odds and ends that he’s stuffed inside as well, but he’s trying to travel light.

He has half an hour before he has to see everyone for the last time, so he sits on his bed and thinks about what he’s going to say to Wednesday, because he knows that’ll be the hardest goodbye. He’s still wording things in his head when she shows up at his door.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says nonchalantly, but doesn’t make it antagonistic. She comes and sits next to him on the bed, both of their legs dangling over the edge, toes barely brushing the ground.

“You know why.”

“And you knew this was coming.”

“I did.”

It’s silent again and it’s comfortable as it always has been between the two of them.

“Wednesday, I –“

He’s cut off by her pressing her fingers to his lips.

“Don’t. It won’t be enough.”

And he knows she’s right. There’s nothing he can say that’ll mean anything she doesn’t already know and it’s the same for her. He pulls her hand away and holds it, but their faces are closer than they’ve ever dared to be and they’re looking at each other.

They kiss.

It’s soft and it’s sweet and it’s a little bit wet, so that when they break apart they’re both swiping their mouths with the backs of their hands.

“I know you,” she says quietly.

“You know me,” he agrees.

They sit for a while, hands still intertwined between them.

When it’s almost time to head downstairs, Wednesday offers him a necklace.

“Isn’t it normally the other way around,” he jokes, but accepts the token. It’s a locket, silver and aged, but lovingly so. He opens it to find a small grainy photo of her and a lock of her hair. Typical Wednesday.

“It’s a family heirloom. Mother and Father don’t mind that I’m giving it to you, so don’t worry.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Don’t forget me.” She says it earnestly, apprehensively, as if she’s afraid he’s capable of doing such a thing.

He scoffs. “As if I could. You’re too weird.”

But he’s laughing as he says it and Wednesday’s smiling at him. He slips the locket over his head and tucks it under his clothes. With the rucksack slung over one shoulder, he glances at the room he’s lived in for the past year.

_Goodbye_, he thinks and he steps out of the room, Wednesday still holding his hand as he shuts the door behind them.

* * * * *

There are hugs and kisses on the cheek and many a word said as everyone wishes him a safe journey home.

Fester’s eyes are watering and Pugsley is pouting, but none of the other members of the family look like they’re about to cry, which is good, because Five don’t think his heart can handle the sight of it. (It'd also be terribly out of character for most of them).

“We’ll miss you, old man,” Gomez says as the Addams’s step back and gather around Five.

Five grins. “I’ll miss you guys too.”

He looks them over, eyes trailing over their familiar faces before settling on Wednesday’s.

Officially, they hadn’t said goodbye and Five preferred it that way. It made it feel like someday, somehow, they’d find each other again. He knew she thought the same thing. Her left hand curls into a fist at her side, with only the pinky extended.

_That’s right_, he thinks. _We’ve promised._

Promised in not so many words, promised many different things that had gone unsaid. It didn’t matter much what the promise actually was, just that it was there and that they both intended to keep it.

He makes the same gesture discreetly and that’s all it takes.

“Until we meet again,” he says to them all, but he knows Wednesday will get the message.

And with a cheeky grin plastered on his face, he gives a lazy salute before jumping through time in the middle of the foyer.

* * * * *

There’s a gaping blue hole ripped through the space where Five is and then it’s gone, taking Five with it.

“The old bastard!” Gomez shouts excitedly. “He was hiding something all along!”

“Yes,” Morticia says simply, an all too knowing smile at the edge of her lips. “That seems to be the case.”

Wednesday looks longingly at the space where Five had stood.

“Until we meet again,” she says softly.


End file.
